Live
by Yorick's Talking Skull
Summary: When his life and her life became one. One-shot.


_Summary: When his life and her life became one. One-shot._

**_Author's Note_:** **This is ultimately a story of life and love. It is told through the eyes of the author whose life we have come along for on this wonderful ride. Who he is speaking to, well, I am sure you will know…**

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><p>I met you for a reason.<p>

When I go back and think about my days of childhood, I can remember uncovering a rackety and beaten up typewriter in the dusty prop room of the theatre my mother preformed in. At that time, I could have never imagined that the hours spent under a thick blanket with a flashlight, typing away on that broken black machine could have led to anything, let alone you.

I write for a reason.

I've told you the story. You were very quiet when I told it. I remember wanting to kiss you after I did. We were on your couch, it was late at night and you had me for dinner. We were snowed in. We were nervous. I told a story. I will never forget the passion and sorrow that burned in your eyes when I told you about my childhood friend who was murdered; child abuse from his parents that I never knew about. He was the only kid on my block that would talk to the kid who moved around a lot, the only friend that believed in me, believed in my writing, believed I had a future.

He told me something I took for granted before his death: I lived for a reason.

My life has been far from something admirable for the complete time I have lived it. I think we all can say that, and I am glad that when I met you, I tried to make this different. At least in time. When I met you my world changed. I felt this indescribable purpose. It went beyond somebody who needed my writing, needed my fame, needed my influence. That late night when you told me about your mother's murder in a hushed voice, I realized you needed only to be understood. I was moved. It was the simplest, yet most beautiful thing a human being could give another. That, and love.

I fell in love with you for a reason.

It was that moment you told me about your mother and her death that I knew. Of course I was attracted to you the moment I met you, (I will not play coy with that one), but when you confided that information with me, I knew I could not be the person to bring you another moment of pain in your life. When you talked about being "a one and done" type, I knew then that it was either nothing, or always with you. In that first year I knew you, I found myself in many situations where people would ask if we were dating, if we were just making mad love to each other, or we had a secret Shakespearean sort of love affair. After noticing that "You're not together?" was even an option, I politely told them you were a friend because I thought at the time that would be okay with you. Whenever I walked away from those people that asked, however, I found myself murmuring _"Katherine Castle…"_ over and over, liking the sound of it on my tongue. Most people I was closest to were used to me talking to myself anyway.

Despite my oddities, the fates kept us together for a reason.

When I told you I loved you for the first time, I also wanted to say that in my mind I had said that phrase thousands of times before. With my eyes, maybe more. But with your heart ruptured by a bullet, you could not say anything in return. That summer I took up photography. That summer your physical heart, they said, became weaker from the gunshot. But I only saw beauty in the viewfinder of that antique camera. Now that I can look back, I still had those worn photographs. You are looking off into the sea when I took you to the Hamptons; you are painting your apartment, your hands methodically applying paint like an artist. But my favorite picture will always be the one your father took of us one day. It was the anniversary of your mother's death in the dead of winter. We went to the cemetery after our day at the precinct. You took my hand in yours. We didn't look at each other. We did not say anything. It was one of those moments you did not need to.

Jim Beckett came to me with the bad news for a reason.

You were so angry. I had never seen you more lost in your life. I wondered for the briefest of moments what it was like after your mother died; how much of the darkness in you I would never know. Your father had a failing liver. He had a transplant. It seemed unsuccessful. Jim told me to drive him to the doctor to get that checkup when they told him that along with the failed liver, he had cancer. He told me not to tell you at first. He was tired of being a source of your pain. When I did tell you, I thought I lost you. You hated secrets kept from you. Your mother's case also resurfaced in this time and the new captain began to question why you kept me around.

You told me you would not see me again, but you gave no reason.

What we thought was a death sentence for your father turned out to be hope. He recovered. My mother took a liking to the man and she invited him to her shows. I came home one night to hear my mother and your father talking, laughing; two people finding meaning in their lives again. Since I had not seen you for months, I kept track with Ryan and Esposito about your mother's case. I watched you become more broken, yet beautiful, standing across the street from a coffee shop where I used to get you coffee. You now went there yourself. I never had the courage to talk to you.

We met again for a reason.

You were walking through central park at night. I was there walking with Alexis. She was about to go to college soon. It was deep spring. You froze when you saw me. I froze. A million different things I had to tell you came running through my mind, and I tried to hold them all back, but one slipped out: _"You look so beautiful,"_ I remember saying. And you did. God, you did. Your hair was longer than usual. You were in jeans. You were Kate at her definition. Alexis began to talk to you about college when I could say nothing more. You walked with us for awhile. Alexis was to my left, you were at my right. I could have sworn I felt your hand brush against mine as you walked a bit closer to me as the night went on. With my camera around my neck, I found an old lady feeding pigeons to take a picture of us. I put the black and white image of the three of us on my desk.

I began to write more, like I had once before, for a reason.

People said my stories became mellower and they did. There was a certain sadness that came with love, unrequited love for that matter with Jameson and Nikki. They were holding off on getting married all for a case. Nikki's mother's murder. The character Nikki fought with Jameson in this heated scene within the novel saying, _"How can I give my love to you if my complete-self is consumed by something else?" _I had a fight with you the day before I wrote that. I heard from Ryan and Esposito that your mother's case was full-blazing, you had received death threats. When they sent me some of the letters you had received, I never remember drinking or throwing up so much in one pained night.

You said you had to delve into this darkness, alone, for a reason.

I came to the precinct for the first time in the months you had thrown me off. I took you in the interrogation room to talk and I told you that I would not watch you be killed, too. You said you needed the truth. When I asked you if it was more important than your life, you were furious, saying I did not understand. I told you I did. You said I didn't know you. Then I told you I did and I took you by the shoulders. You tried to push me. I told you that you were falling apart. I told you I was there for you. Always. I told you the thought of you having death threats made me sick. As for the thought of you dying; I would not even imagine it. You tried to push me away harder. My grip on your arms became stronger and I said it right then and there. Again. _"I love you."_

That was why I could not lose you, I had a reason.

After those words slipped, you became inflamed. We both did. I don't blame you for the things we said. I regret them, too. You said the undercover kiss meant nothing. I said that you were aware I loved you but you did not want to deal with it; you were selfish. You said that maybe words, in the end, meant nothing. _"Fine,"_ I said, then I pulled your mouth to mine. I had you pinned in the corner of the interrogation room until you turned on me. I was pressed against the wall and I could not breathe, but slipping under in our years of unrequited fiery desire was the most intense feeling of intimacy. Our lips were harsh at first against one another, so were our teeth, but like our time together, it mellowed. It became something beautiful, yet broken. You groaned as I slipped my tongue in your mouth and backpedaled you into the interrogation table, lifting you up to sit on it as we continued to explore each other's mouths. Hands roamed.

I think our passions gave way in that interrogation room for a reason.

Poetic justice one might call it. Declaring truth in a place where truth was the most valued. Well, we can laugh about this now, but you were furious after the new captain came in on us, dropping all of her case files. I never saw the lady more pale then instantly red in my life. Now that I mention this, I don't remember her giving much emotion at all. Yet again though, I don't know why, we shied away from each other. I think, looking back, we were both afraid of what was happening. We both knew that it was not _if_ anymore, it was _when_. And when we were to happen, we were to keep each other. There was no turning back.

You came back to me, a month later, for a reason.

It was a violent, stormy summer day. Lightening stretched across the city skyline, driving even more people into the book signing for the latest Nikki Heat book. When you slipped into the reading with drenched hair and dark eyes, I noticed you. I froze up during the reading. You had a tendency to do that to me…more than once, missy. You listened to me read. Not seeing you for so long, not knowing how you felt about our fiery interrogation confrontation, I was trembling as I signed fans' books, watching you come up the line. Right before you were almost at the front, I realized that this was where we first met at that bookstore. I remember you out of all of those people still when you came up all young and startled, yet so genuine. _Real_. I think I shook more than you did in the process of you having that Derrick Storm book signed those years ago. I told you this is where we met when you came to the front of the line.

You said you wanted a word with me…it could not wait, this reason.

In the back hallway to the book storage room you looked at me deep in the eyes. You went on the tips of your toes, because you were in flats, to say something in my ear. You hesitated for a moment, your breath running in exasperation against my ear, until you whispered, _"I love you."_ I could not say anything. I thought it was a figment of my imagination until your lips crashed hazily into mine, you had me pinned against the wall and my hands found refuge at your waist, pulling you closer. Our timing still was awful, as tradition called for. A book retailer came to get me only to find…well…at least other people got to admire our stellar kissing skills.

After that, we kept each other, for a reason.

I loved you; I told you I loved you. You did the same with me. But that did not take away the troubles we had with beginning a relationship, though. We drove each other crazy, but it was the time of our lives. We taught each other how to live, why we were living. We even made advancements on your mother's case. We were so happy, working freely together, yet keeping that sort of quieted relationship aspect we enjoyed. I thought everything could not be going better until you were shot again in the final stand with your mother's case, by the man who ordered your mother's murder.

You lived for a reason.

I remember that we were engaged to be married by then. We went back to the Hamptons again as you recovered. I brought my camera with me. I took pictures. You told me to live in the moment. We did. It was the first time I made love to you. It was slow lovemaking; sorrowful, yet so renewing. It was storming outside. I remember that. But I remember your body more. It was warm and living against mine after we became one in the darkness. I wanted to love you like this forever, even if forever is not a part of the human condition.

Your scars were silent stories of your strength, I kissed them lightly, and I loved them for that unspoken reason.

Years after, like a photograph in my mind, I remember you laughing through tears. _"You're crying,"_ you told me, rolling your eyes and taking my face in your hands. I put my viewfinder of my camera up to my eye and squinted the other and said, _"Totally not,"_ while passing you your won bet money. Our twin boy and girl looked so young, but life goes so fast. It was their first day of school. And yes, I was crying.

We stuck together for many years to come, we knew the reason.

It was more than the always fiery lovemaking, which happened often, but that was not why. I would try and explain it, but I think the most beautiful things in life, like lasting love, are supposed to remain a mystery. They remain because they do. There is no explaining it.

Hardship happened; we weathered it, all for love, the ultimate reason.

Mother died, your father died. We were broken. No amount of lovemaking, family support, or times of telling Alexis and her very young children that things were going to be okay made them okay. They were not for the longest time, but that is grief. Grief is nothing to hold onto as if it has value. We continued on. Our son became a cop. We cried when he graduated and joined the force. We clasped our hands together thinking of all the trials and tribulations it took to get to that moment. How proud we were of our son for channeling what sometimes was a rocky and troubled youth when he found purpose. He was later promoted to homicide. Our daughter became an artist. She loved film when she was younger. I remember taking her to see a film once when she was seven. I hardly remember what the thing was about, but when she came out of it she clasped my hand and said, _"Daddy, I am going to make people see the world differently. One day, I will have a movie in that theatre."_ She has had countless heart wrenching and also heartwarming films in that theatre ever since. You and I have been to them all. Talented kids, to your chagrin, make you cry a lot.

But maybe life, and learning as we grew older how it was not infinite, was the reason.

We are not infinite. There is no always. As much as I would love to say there is, there isn't. Yet, I have a brimming hope that there is a part of us that can never be destroyed, that cannot be taken, broken down into mere elements when we die. I do know a part of us that will always remain on this earth, however, is our stories. We all become fables. Our childhood friends we have long lost, the people we knew, the lives that crossed with ours. They may no longer exist, like the feeling of belonging that was brought by your childhood home, but stories of them remain.

I hope you always remember me and I know you will let my story live, our story live, for this reason.

You have dementia. I have cancer. Between us two there have been more mornings of coffee than I can recall, so many years of marriage that I have to second-guess anniversaries sometimes because I never ever expected to be married to one person this long, but like you can tell from this letter, it has been extraordinary, every moment of our life together. The happy and the sad.

We died within a couple days of each other, for a reason.

It was fitting. We could not live without each other long. We smile on those left behind. We smile down on those who have loved our story.

You have heard this story, for a reason.

It is time to write yours.


End file.
